What Happens in the ER Stays
by Rinari7
Summary: The treatment was straightforward, but the slender woman with bleeding wrists and piercing blue eyes would stay with Dr. Cameron. [Cameron treats Moriarty after Elementary episode 2x12, one shot]


The paramedics had called ahead, requesting for several bags of O-negative blood to be ready on their arrival. "Thirty-two year old female, in shock from blood loss, severe lacerations on the wrists."  
If Dr. Allison Cameron, Senior Attending in the ER, was surprised that the thin, delicate-looking young woman was accompanied by several US Marshals, she didn't show it beyond a quick twitch of her eyebrows.

"How did this happen? Did she do it to herself?" The question was asked almost idly, as she quickly hung an IV line and inserted the needle into the young woman's arm.  
"Glass shards. She dug RFID chips out of her wrists."  
Cameron nodded once, her expression turning slightly more sombre. She wasn't going to ask why. As she carefully undid one of the young woman's own—quite well-done—bandages around her wrists to reveal a remote-controlled electric bracelet, she sent a questioning glance towards the marshals again.

"Oh, they won't do anything to you now. She, ah-" he cleared his throat "-shorted them out."  
A noncommittal noise let them know she had at least received their information. "Could you take these off? I can't get to the injuries underneath."

"You aren't afraid?"  
Cameron turned her head to meet the blue eyes of her patient boring into her.

"They're not going to do anything if you've already shorted them out." She shrugged, waiting as the marshal who hadn't yet spoken stepped forward and opened the high-tech handcuffs. "You should rest. You just lost a lot of blood."  
"I think I'll be the judge of that." Still, the woman—British, according to her accent—laid her head back down on the pillow, her shoulder-length blond hair spreading out to give her a sort of a halo.

"Now, I know this isn't a nice question to ask, but was this a suicide attempt?" Dr. Cameron glanced at the patient again as she began to sanitize the wound. "I have to ask."  
"If I intended to die through this endeavor, then I wouldn't have cared whether or not the chips inside me could be tracked, would I?" This was said with a sort of private amusement, despite the hint of weakness and pain that still bled through in her voice.  
"I figured it wasn't, but like I said, with these kinds of injuries, I have to ask. The psych ward is just dying for more patients, you know." The last sentence held a twist of her own wry sarcasm. The shrinks' department was already understaffed and overflowing.  
Cameron began to stitch the gash on the patient's right wrist closed. While the woman was cooperative enough, she didn't seem to particularly care what was being done to her, occupying herself instead with observing her surroundings and primarily the person treating her.  
"Interesting choice of words, doctor."

"I gave up on being politically correct a long time ago." _I was taught to give it up; he practically forced it out of me_ , and a cane and piercing blue eyes flashed through her mind, but she didn't voice those thoughts. She didn't often think about House, but something about this patient turned her thoughts to him now.

She could almost feel herself being studied by similar blue eyes now. _Does she see puzzles, games, like he did?_ Like Cameron herself did, now, sometimes. After all, everybody lies.  
Still she asked, "Was your freedom worth that much to you?"

"Who said I did this simply to get out of incarceration? Though I suppose that would be the most immediately apparent motivation."  
"In medical school, they told us that when we hear hoof beats, we should think horses, not zebras. But I've seen more than enough zebras to say you should consider both possibilities."  
"And what do you think that other possibility is?"  
"I said I thought there might be one. I never said I knew what it was."

"I suppose the first step to overcoming a lack of insight is admitting that one is indeed plagued by it."  
Cameron began working on the other wrist, stepping to the side slightly so the marshal could remove the other bracelet as well. "At least you don't seem to have any neurological damage. You passed out for a while in the ambulance."  
"I has assumed as much. But I'm not quite sure you're able to accurately assess my 'normal' neurological functions. I have never been officially tested, but the consensus always was that I would qualify for Mensa at the very least."  
"And let me guess: you were always so humble." The strangely House-like comment slipped from her lips, and she cringed internally. They—House's team—hadn't gotten away soon enough, or maybe it was too soon, because she was sure House would have been able to guess this woman's secrets within the ten minutes she had seen her.  
A weak sort of laugh was quickly suppressed. "Always." The sarcasm was audibly there, still somehow subtle, but not cruel.

She didn't even wince as Cameron drew the needle through her skin, despite the fact that Cameron hadn't given her any form of painkillers. Every so often she glanced at the young woman, though she couldn't detect so much as a grimace—though Cameron found herself still being watched, practically scrutinized, as she quizzed her patient to test her long-term and short-term memory.  
"What's your name?"  
"Jamie Moriarty."  
"And your date of birth?"  
A short pause, a glance at the government officials standing by her bed, then: "November 18th, 1981."  
Cameron glanced at the marshals as well, who nodded to confirm that this information was, apparently, accurate.  
"What day is it?"  
"Tuesday. Unless it's already Wednesday by now. But I don't think _that_ much time has passed."  
"Who's the President of the United States?"  
"Barack Obama. And the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom is David Cameron."  
"Well, I might not be Mensa material, but I think I can safely say that if your neurological function _is_ compromised, the rest of the world won't know the difference."  
A grimace that she supposed was intended to be a smile was the only response.

"I'll transfer her to a room in about an hour or so, so we can watch her overnight." This was directed at the marshals. Having tied off the last stitch and wrapped the last bandage around her patient's wrists—from which blood still seeped, though far more slowly now, almost imperceptibly—Cameron peeled off her latex gloves and tossed them in the bin.  
"We'll take her to our own facility after this, thanks." The marshal spoke up again. "It's far easier for us watch her. I assume she's stable."  
"She's just getting over shock and she's lost a lot of blood. I'm not comfortable moving her."  
"But she could be moved."  
"I-" Cameron sighed, then nodded. "As long as she's treated gently."  
"And here I was just getting comfortable. Getting to know Dr. Cameron here. Is that your maiden name, Cameron?"  
"No… does it matter?" Allison wrinkled her forehead, unconsciously adjusting the name tag on her lab coat.  
"I can't say that it particularly does." And yet something about Jamie's tone led Cameron to believe that, yes, it did matter.

The quieter marshal flipped his phone closed; his voice was deeper than that of the other official. "There's a car on its way."  
"I'll get a nurse to help you on your way out. And I'll need a signature on the patient treatment forms, and an address for billing."  
"I'll take care of it." The first marshal spoke up.

One of the nurses chose that moment to slip inside the curtained-off area, brandishing a clipboard. "I figured you'd need these. And we've got a three-car pileup incoming in ten." She moved to hand the clipboard with the admittance forms to Cameron.  
"Thank you, Katie. You're a lifesaver. If you could take care of that with one of the officers,"-Allison nodded to indicate the marshals-"I need to grab a cup of coffee."

"You got it." And Katie began taking up at least some of the pair's attention, and Cameron turned to leave, and Moriarty suddenly grabbed her wrist, forcefully.  
"Be careful! You'll open your stitches." Cameron lowered her voice as she met Moriarty's intense stare. "Are you okay, Ms. Moriarty?"

"Doctor Cameron, I'm afraid I must ask you a question of a rather personal nature." A short pause, barely perceptible yet still quite palpable, then: "Is there a person for whom you would go to great lengths, without question, for quite illogical reasons, even though it would be far better to simply not care?"  
 _Jason. Melanie. House._ "Yes." A simple, honest, answer.

"I suppose this is part of the affliction commonly referred to as 'the human condition'." Her patient grimaced. A stilted way of referring to it, sure, but Cameron nodded.  
"I see. Thank you." The response was practically mechanical, and the patient's hand dropped back onto the bed.

"If you want to talk about anything, I can-"  
A grimace flitted across Moriarty's face now, nearly a snarl, and her gaze turned cold. In that moment, Cameron was grateful for the years of intimidation under House, because that was the only thing that limited her reaction to a quick, instinctive step back.

"That will be all, Doctor Cameron, thank you." Anyone who might have dared insist that it really was not all—well, they didn't exist.  
And Allison Cameron turned her back on Jamie Moriarty, leaving quickly and taking several minutes in the break room to enjoy her coffee. She needed the time to rid herself of the residual uneasiness—and lingering curiosity. 

* * *

**Author's Note:** I don't usually write crossovers, but this came to me and I had to get it out.  
Neither of the main characters belong to me. (I couldn't write Moriarty well if I didn't have the show's amazing precedent for her, so kudos to the actual writers.)

Also many thanks go to my beta reader for this story, ParadiseGirl97. I hope you guys enjoyed!


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